


Noir

by Achievelandia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achievelandia/pseuds/Achievelandia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't venture out at night very often, when he does it <i>usually</i> doesn't end well...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noir

**Author's Note:**

> This **will** have a sequel. I apologise for not working on my other fics, I just felt like writing this.

_I’m near the end,_  
I’ve acomplished nothing,  
and as I look into the sky, oblivion.  
You are, beautiful noir,  
Cinematic film, that only I see. 

The first time John ventured out in the middle of the night it was to help Sherlock look for bright yellow graffiti for a case to do with a blinded painting and a missing banker. He distinctly remember the night and the case ending with an ASBO and near death, as most nights with Sherlock tended to.

_The sand trickled from the bag into the weight for the giant crossbow now pointed at Sarah and John found himself shouting that he **wasn’t** Sherlock Holmes, and trust me you’d know if you met Sherlock Holmes, he has the strangest hair and an intelligence behind his eyes that it’s hard to mistake and this habit of disappearing when you need him and I’m just a bit dull in comparison so..._

_But by then Sherlock **had** appeared at the end of the tunnel, coat swishing dramatically, blue eyes glimmering in the light. John hadn’t known him for long at that point but the sound of Sherlock’s voice echoing to him caused relief to bubble up in his chest, a grin crossing his face until his gaze is directed back to the very real **giant crossbow bolt** aimed at his almost girlfriend by the sound of sand slowly shifting against metal._

_“You don’t want to be firing that in here.” Sherlock had said, nodding to the gun now held by the evidently mentally disturbed circus mistress come assassin, “Surely someone as intelligent as you knows that if you miss me that bullet could ricochet off of these walls and hit any one of us... Including you. Something tells me you won’t take that risk.”_

_And then Sherlock was gone again, disappearing into the shadows not making a single sound as he somehow appeared behind John, attempting to release him as quickly as he could before one of the silk dancers descended on him - almost literally. It was then that John had unceremoniously hopped and shuffled across to Sarah, attempting to free her before the contraption triggered. Perhaps he was being a little optimistic... And slow. As a last ditch attempt to save his girlfriend’s life John hooked his foot under the machine and kicked it to the side, causing the bolt to catch Sherlock’s attacker dead centre in his chest, leaving Sherlock gasping on the floor after being almost strangled by his own scarf._

_Struggling to his feet and brushing himself off Sherlock had released John and Sarah. Their attackers had disappeared and it seemed they were all safe, for now._

Needless to say, John hadn’t seen Sarah again after that fiasco.

There were many other nighttime outings with Sherlock that almost ended in injury but the final time John ventured out in the middle of the night it was substantially different. The final time John left Baker Street it was midnight, he was alone and the cold was biting as he huddled deeper into his jacket, Sherlock’s scarf wrapped around his neck for warmth and security - Sherlock would scoff at the sentimentality of it but John found that having it around helped.

The contents of his pocket rattled unevenly as he stepped, his limp having returned after The Fall, it’s contents reassuring him of what he was about to do. 

He was about to assure the world that Sherlock Homes was indeed real, that he wasn’t a sham or a fake... Sherlock Holmes was a great man and, John found that closer to The Fall he had even become a good one - just as Lestrade had predicted. 

Slipping the paint from his pocket as he reached the corner he found himself relaxing into the familiar feeling of being somewhere that he shouldn’t have been doing something he shouldn’t have been - it was a common feeling when walking the city with Sherlock Holmes. The words came naturally as he scrawled them across the colourful graffiti beneath. Soon I.O.U was covered with a simple sentence, simple but memorable;

**_BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES._ **

The words had been floating before his eyes for days bleeding into months into years, bright yellow and oddly comforting. After The Fall John had devoted himself to keeping the memory of Sherlock alive, he would remain as long as nobody forgot about him. Now, two years and six months to the day, the world had all but forgotten the scandal of Sherlock Holmes the ‘Scamming Detective of Baker Street’ and moved on. It was time for John to move on too. 

His final art project would be St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Walking into the lab that he had been in with Sherlock so often he pulled the paint from his pocket once more and scrawled across the long windows, the words backwards so that everyone outside would see when the morning shift came.

As he turned to leave he placed the paint beside Sherlock’s favourite microscope - “It’s easier to focus the lens, Stamford, don’t get awkward.” - and turned off the lights.

The staircase to the roof was cold but not as cold as the waxy gravel covered roof. The wind whistled around the air conditioning ducts causing a strange howl that set John’s teeth on edge and a light rain pattered down, slowly soaking through his clothes and chilling him to the bone.

Walking to the edge he found the exact spot where Sherlock had stood and stared down at the street below. It was fairly empty now, what with it being around two in the morning. John found himself wondering what it would have felt like to be in Sherlock’s position as he stood on that roof staring down at a crowded street, buses and cars sailing past, pedestrians completely oblivious to the confrontation going on above... John, staring up and awaiting the inevitable.

_What goes up must come down._

Looking up at the stars John found himself thinking of the Van Buren Supernova and the ‘Great Game’ as Sherlock had called it. All of those acomplishments... What had John done? 

Hearing his phone ring from his pocket John pulled it out, wondering who would bother to ring him at this time of the night. He didn’t bother to step away from the edge or check the caller ID as he hit the answer button and held the phone up to his ear, giving a short “Hello?”

“John...”

His voice was soft but unmistakeable.

“Sherlock?”

“Come down, John.”


End file.
